VOL.  XXXVII,  NO.  2 


OCTOBER,   1907 


TWENTY-FIVE  CENTS 


NEW  ENGLAND 
MAGAZIN 


Rhode  Island :  the  State 
on  the  Up-Grade 

By  Frank  Putnam 

The  Culture -Value  of 
Modern  Languages 

By  G.  Stanley  Hall 


Farming  as  I  See  It 

By  Kate  Sanborn 

How  Roosevelt  Will 
Clean  Out  Washington 

By  David  S.  Barry 

The  Ha'nt  of  the  Um- 
colcus 

By  Holman  F.  Day 


$3 


Copyright  1907  by  New  England  Magazine  Company. 


204  NEW   ENGLAND   MAGAZINE 

laid  doughnut  to  revive  his  droopin'  heart,  "Yes,"  said  the  cook,  grimly;  "but  you 

and  — "  can't  chase  him  on  snow  —  not  where  he 's 

"Is  that  man  gone?"  bawled  Christo-  gone.    He's  deader 'n  the  door-knob  on  a 

pher,  reaching  for  his  snow-shoes.  hearse-house  door." 


A   LINE-STORM    SONG 

By  ROBERT  FROST 

The  line-storm  clouds  fly  tattered  and  swift, 

The  road  is  forlorn  all  day, 
Where  a  myriad  snowy  quartz-stones  lift 

And  the  hoof -prints  vanish  away; 
The  roadside-flowers,  too  wet  for  the  bee, 

Expend  their  bloom  in  vain. 
Come  over  the  hills  and  far  with  me, 

And  be  my  love  in  the  rain. 

The  birds  have  less  to  say  for  themselves, 

In  the  wood -world's  torn  despair, 
Than  now  these  numberless  years  the  elves, 

Although  they  are  no  less  there; 
All  song  of  the  woods  is  hushed  like  some 

Wild,  easily  shattered  rose. 
Come,  be  my  love  in  the  wet  woods;  come, 

Where  the  boughs  rain  when  it  blows. 

There  is  the  gale  to  urge  behind 

And  bruit  our  singing  down, 
And  the  shallow  waters  a-flutter  with  wind 

From  which  to  gather  your  gown. 
What  matter  if  we  go  clear  to  the  west, 

And  come  not  through  dry-shod? 
For  wilding  brooch  shall  wet  your  breast, 

The  rain-fresh  goldenrod. 

Oh,  never  this  whelming  east  wind  swells 

But  it  seems  like  the  sea's  return 
To  the  ancient  lands  where  it  left  the  shells 

Before  the  age  of  the  fern; 
And  it  seems  like  the  time  when,  after  doubt, 

Our  love  came  back  amain. 
Oh,  come  forth  into  the  storm  and  rout, 

And  be  my  love  in  the  rain. 


FARMING   AS   I   SEE   IT 


By  KATE  SANBORN 


HERE'S  nothing  like  a  Farm: 
a  Discouragement  and  an  In- 
spiration. It  gives  you  health 
and  takes  your  money. 

If  "you"  are  a  man  with  a 
strong,  healthy  wife  and  half  a  dozen  boys, 
and  near  a  good  market,  and  do  all  the 
work  yourselves,  you  can  make  a  living  — 
if  farm  is  not  mortgaged. 

And  conditions  are  greatly  improved  by 
R.  F.  D.,  telephones,  the  social  life  of  the 
Granges. 

But  I,  a  lone,  lorn  woman  with  no  husky 
hubby,  and  my  only  boys  those  I  hire,  and 
thirty  miles  from  a  city  market,  can  truth- 
fully say  that  after  seventeen  years  of  con- 
stant toil,  outlay,  and  experiment,  I  have 
raised  better  crops  than  any  man  near  me, 
but  could  not  find  a  really  paying  market 
for  anything  but  hay  and  rye. 

I  have  sold  eggs,  broilers,  and  hens  for 
fricassees  to  Boston  clubs  and  Boston  mar- 
kets, and  always  at  a  good  price,  but  it 
never  paid  for  necessary  outlay.  One  prom- 
inent hotel  proprietor  who  loves  to  come  out 
here  and  lunch  on  broilers  and  all  my  de- 
licious vegetables,  when  I  asked  him  to  buy 
my  broilers  exclaimed,  "Do  you  suppose 
we  buy  tender  birdlings  like  these  for  our 
daily  table  ?  Not  much !  We  know  how  to 
make  old  fowls  taste  like  the  real  article." 

I  asked  the  head  of  the  Commissary  De- 
partment of  Southern-Terminal-Upstairs- 
Restaurant  if  he  used  a  large  number  of 
chickens.  "Oh,  yes,  madam."  I  compli- 
mented him  on  the  delicacy  of  a  bit  I  had 
been  enjoying,  and  then  said,  "I  have 
about  two  hundred  chickens  now  ready  for 
sale.  Will  you  not  take  some?"  How  his 
face  changed!  How  his  jaw  fell!  " Could  n't 
take  'em.  We  use  mostly  old  hens!  Morn- 
ing, Madam." 

I  step  into  a  Boston  provision-store  when 
eggs  are  the  highest,  and  inquire  the  present 
price  per  dozen.  "Fifty-five  cents,  madam; 
how  many  will  you  take?"  "Oh,  I  want 
to  sett  a  large  number  of  the  very  best,  and 
perfectly  fresh;  how  much  do  you  pay?" 


"Not  more  than  thirty  cents  and  have  reg- 
ular supplies  coming  in  all  the  time,  so  can 
do  nothing  with  yours." 

I  sold  large  boxes  of  eggs  to  New  York 
friends,  but  that  never  paid.  I've  traded 
the  best  eggs  for  groceries,  but  the  grocer 
always  got  the  best  of.  the  bargain  at  both 
ends. 

How  can  any  one  make  anything  on 
vegetables  unless  raised  in  a  hothouse? 
Rhubarb  sells  in  all  the  neighboring  towns 
at  a  cent  a  pound,  and  they  want  fifty 
pounds  at  a  time;  they  sell  at  three  cents  a 
bunch. 

The  finest  of  sweet  corn  I  could  get  only 
eight  cents  a  dozen  ears!  Better  to  give  it 
away  right  out. 

I  did  once  get  up  quite  a  vogue  for  my 
beans  in  West  Dedway,  and  while  driving 
through  town  an  upper  window  was  raised 
hastily,  and  a  woman  shouted,  "Are  you 
the  woman  that  sells  beans?" 

My  spirits  rose.  "Yes,  how  many  would 
you  like?" 

"Ten  cents'  worth,  and  come  to-morrow 
at  ten  sharp!" 

And  I  did. 

I  kept  a  dozen  cows  for  a  time  and  a 
superb  Holstein  bull,  thereby  enriching  the 
commission-man  in  Boston  (whose  name 
begins  with  B).  He  gave  but  two  cents  and 
a  half  for  Jersey  milk  of  the  purest,  which 
sold  for  ten  cents  after  taking  off  one  skim- 
ming of  richest  yellow  cream  for  special 
sale  for  ice  cream.  The  extortion  of  what 
he  called  "surplus,"  and  his  impudent  re- 
turn of  sour  milk  which  never  came  from 
my  farm,  was  so  disheartening  that  I  sold 
my  cows  in  anger  and  despair.  If  you  are 
willing  to  devote  your  life  to  a  "  milk 
route"  there  is  a  little  profit  —  nothing 
startling. 

The  farmers  who  sell  milk  to  the  cities, 
unless  they  get  some  special  and  fat  job, 
like  the  City  Hospital,  are  as  much  over- 
ridden and  ground  down  as  were  ever  the 
slaves  of  the  South. 

And  pigs?  Yes,  the  agricultural  papers 

205 


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Grape-Nuts 

For 

Breakfast 

or  Lunch. 
Energy 

for  all  day. 

•• There's  a  Reason" 

Postum  Cereal  Co.,  Ltd.,  Battle  Creek,   Mich.,  U.S.  \. 


Of  course  there  is  nothing  too  good 
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(Established  1£~>4) 
466  Whitlock  Ave.,  Borough  Bronx,  New  York  City 


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